


the waltz is a dance in three-quarter time

by andreaphobia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale defeated by technology, Jokes, M/M, Not exactly fake dating, Social Media, Soul Selling, approximately real dating, caution: contains no actual dancing, cocoa in a mug with a little snake handle, love without ever saying the word, the ansaphone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 06:08:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19289746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andreaphobia/pseuds/andreaphobia
Summary: In which Crowley learns a certain moral regarding the best-laid plans of mice and men. (And, sometimes, demons.)Or: the one where Crowley learns it's so much better to date someone who understands you.





	the waltz is a dance in three-quarter time

*

**1.**

Crowley could hardly wait. He had been working on this girl for… what, must have been nearly half a year now?—and, like a lioness on the hunt in the plains of the Serengeti, he could sense that the long pursuit was winding down to its conclusion. Somehow, he just _knew_ it: tonight was the night. Five and a half months of wining and dining her, going on endless dates and taking endless couple selfies, all of which was to culminate in the sale of one, single soul[1]—or so he hoped.

Her name, if anyone was asking, was Bethany. It was her life’s dream to be an Instagram influencer, and she was liable to do anything if it meant gaining likes or followers. How Crowley had come to know this little tidbit of information was simple—he’d asked her, and hadn’t bothered to clarify when she’d assumed the bit about her soul was a metaphor.

Young people these days, he thought, playing glumly with the stem of his wine glass. Sell their souls for a fish stick and a cup of tartar sauce, they would[2]. Now, in the _old_ days, they’d at least go away and have a proper think about it before they went around signing their name in blood on any satanic contracts. It occurred to Crowley that there was probably some kind of message about the moral decline of society buried in that thought. (And if there was, he only hoped he could take credit for it.)

His thoughts must have begun to show on his face, for Bethany, who was seated across the table from him, stopped talking abruptly and set her wine glass down with a pout.

“Anthony, are you _listening_ to me?”

Crowley gave a start before hastily adjusting his face into the expression of cool, handsome detachment that he always wore around her.

“‘course it is. And have I mentioned,” he added winningly, “that that dress looks darling on you? Because it does.”

Taken by surprise, she covered her mouth with a giggle, and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Oh… you _are_ a flirt.” Then she stopped suddenly, and pulled out her iPhone. “Actually, while we’re on the subject—could you gram me? Only I’m doing this challenge where you make a new post every hour, and I’d hate to break my streak…”

As the inventor of not just the selfie but also the selfie stick, that most beloved tool of the narcissist, Crowley knew he only had himself to blame—but still. _Still_ [3].

“Of course, love.” He took her phone from her with an obliging smile.

“Perfect. _Don’t_ take it from a low angle, please, that’s not my best look. A little more to the left—yes, exactly. Oh, and make sure you get the bottle in the frame as well, so everyone can see the vintage.”

Crowley’s smile was beginning to feel more like a grimace, but fortunately she hadn’t seemed to notice. It took what felt like aeons for him to finally take a picture she was satisfied with, and several more millennia passed while she cropped it and chose a filter. At last, when it was all said and done, she put her phone away, then immediately resumed the story she’d been recounting to him as though there had been no interruption.

“So as I was telling you—after _that_ , she blocked _me_ on Facebook, and _I_ said to her, well, if you didn’t want me to vlog about it then you shouldn’t have—”

Crowley held up a finger. “Hold that thought, Beth—I need to stop by the gents’. I’ll just be a minute.” He gave her a big smile, and then nipped off before she could do more than say ‘okay’.

Strictly speaking, demons didn’t actually have to use the loo. Any inconvenient or otherwise unwanted functions of the physical bodies that housed them could simply be wished away, if the wisher couldn’t be bothered to deal with them properly. However, Crowley found it a very useful excuse for avoiding conversation, and employed it often, particularly because it was something people didn’t argue with. If you had to go, you had to go—a useful rule of thumb for humans, but a kind of paradise (if you’ll excuse the use of the word) for Crowley.

Sadly, in his haste to escape the table, he found that he’d forgotten his phone back at his seat. With no other distractions available, he just stood in one of the lavatory stalls with the door locked for a few minutes and thought about what was going to be on the telly that night before meandering back out. (He did spend a moment checking his hair in the mirror first, though; if he was going to be forced to take a selfie, he at least wanted to look good.)

“Sorry about that,” he said, as he slid back into his chair with a grin. “Now, where were we?”

It only took a moment for him to realise that something was wrong, but even that was already too late. Bethany took one look at him, her lower lip quivering, and then immediately burst into tears. He could do little more than stare as she began to heave these great, tragic sobs into her hands. It was quite noisy, and Crowley wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or concerned. It seemed rude to interrupt so he waited until the sobbing had died down a bit. (When she looked up again, he noticed her mascara had gone all runny, in an artistic sort of way.)

Before he could say anything, however, she pointed a trembling and perfectly-manicured finger at him. “You… you…” She paused, sucking in an enormous breath, and then wailed, “You _lying little snake_!”

Crowley was utterly aghast. First of all: because she couldn’t have known, how the heaven could she have _known_? He never took his glasses off around her, _ever_ , and several productive sessions with a speech therapist had made him so much better at not hissing when he got excited.

Second of all: he might have been many things, but one thing he did _not_ do much was lie, and honestly he found that accusation quite offensive. He was just opening his mouth to tell her as much, when he was prevented from doing so by having a glass of wine thrown in his face.

As she returned her empty glass to the table, a hush fell over the room. If there had been anyone in the restaurant not watching them before, they were certainly looking now. Apparently pleased to have an audience, she flipped her hair back over her shoulder, and tossed her nose in the air.

“Goodbye, Anthony.” Her voice was sheer ice. “Don’t _ever_ contact me again.”

Picking up her bag and phone, she flounced off, which left him standing there, dumbfounded and dripping with wine.

Everyone was still staring at him, some of them starting to whisper, and he couldn’t even wish himself clean unless he wanted to add _mass memory alteration_ to the list of things he’d have to include in his bimonthly report. Bitterly, he wiped himself off as best as he could with a napkin, then retreated to the toilets, away from prying eyes. He’d deal with all the rest later.

*

**2.**

Bethany had no idea what to think of him.

On the one hand, he was the perfect gentleman. Never got handsy with her; always respected her personal space. Quite rare qualities in a man, it had to be said. On top of that, he was quite funny, and _very_ good-looking. Also, for some reason, the selfies he took already seemed to have the perfect Instagram-ready filters applied. On paper, at least, it seemed like a match made in heaven.

On the other hand—well. Call it womanly instinct if you like, but there was just something about him, something she didn’t know if she trusted. Maybe it was that he seemed like the type of person to have ulterior motives. He wore sunglasses all the time, even when it was dark out, and once she caught him carrying on a conversation with his car stereo—although he claimed to have been using a Bluetooth earpiece at the time.

Also—and she was a bit ashamed to count this, but it would’ve been a lie to say he didn’t lose some points for it—he seemed to need to pee a lot. Some kind of medical issue or something, probably, she’d never really asked. Which was _fine_ ; age caught up with everyone, she knew, but all the same…

Really, she should’ve known to trust her instincts. She’d just been sitting there, minding her own business and waiting for him to come back from the loo again when his phone started going off. And even then she wouldn’t have thought anything of it if one little detail hadn’t caught her eye.

The name of the person calling was displayed on Anthony’s phone screen. It said, simply: _Angel_.

Bethany stared at it, uncomprehending.

It continued to ring, obnoxiously. She reached over and flipped it around to face her. The associated contact picture was of a middle-aged man—blond, wearing a tan coat, a silly little bow-tie, and a rather soppy-looking smile.

Bethany knew that look. Specifically, she recognised it as the kind of expression you saw on the face of old married couples—the sort of couples who got photographed holding hands across the table at Maccies and posted on Twitter as _#relationshipgoals_.

 _Oh._  Her eyes narrowed. _I see._

*

**3.**

At around seven-thirty in the evening on Friday night, Aziraphale got the sudden urge to given Crowley a call.

It felt like it had been a while since he’d seen Crowley. Days, or weeks, even—not that anyone was counting, of course. Besides, sometimes he just got the feeling that Crowley was up to no good. (It didn’t matter whether that made sense or not; the important thing was that it served as a good excuse.)

He called the flat first, and was quite displeased to get the ansaphone (which Crowley had finally taken the time to explain to him).

“Hello? Crowley, listen, I just wanted you to know, I’ve managed—”

_“Hey, this is Anthony Crowley, you know what to do, do it with style.”_

“—to get… oh, it’s that blasted machine, isn’t it?” He sighed. “Well, then. Would you please tell Crowley that I was looking for him? Thank you.”

He hung up and tried again, this time dialling Crowley’s mobile number. It rang a total of seven times before connecting.

“Crowley—so glad I could get through to you, my dear. Listen—I’ve managed to get the tickets for that show you’ve been wanting to see, and I needed to ask if we were still on for Wednesday night.”

Crowley didn’t say anything, so after a few moments, he tried again.

“Hello? Crowley, are you there? Don’t tell me this is another ansaphone, you _know_ I don’t keep up with these newfangled—”

“No,” said an unfamiliar voice, which sounded as though it belonged to a woman. Aziraphale immediately shut up. “I’m sorry, Anthony can’t come to the phone at the moment. Is this… er… Anthony’s ‘angel’?”

Aziraphale blinked. His throat worked silently around a lump that had formed in it, until he suddenly remembered how to speak. “Er—well, I—I suppose you _could_ say that, only not really, but—”

He never got to finish his sentence, as at that point the person on the other end hung up. This, he felt, was quite a shame, since he’d always wanted to get to know some of Crowley’s friends[4]. He shrugged to himself, and set the phone back in its cradle. Well, he’d just have to tell Crowley about the tickets later.

About half an hour later, Crowley arrived. He sauntered in, made a bee-line for one of the sofas in the back of the shop, and collapsed upon it, whereupon he began to whinge loudly to anyone who would listen. (Given that Aziraphale’s shop was only open for about ten minutes on a typical day, this was a very short list consisting of one angel and Crowley himself. On the upside, however, at least he wasn’t disturbing any actual customers.)

“Six whole months, Aziraphale! I was the perfect boyfriend for six months, and then— _this_!” He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes (which didn’t look terribly comfortable, seeing as he was still wearing his sunglasses). “You think she’d at least _explain_ what I did, instead of running out on me like that.”

“Oh, were you seeing someone?” said Aziraphale with mild interest. In an automatic sort of way he had already set about making cocoa—it was his go-to response for any sort of event, good or bad.

“Er…” Crowley had just enough decency to look abashed. “Sort of. Dunno. Not _really_. It was… y’know… work stuff.” His voice shrunk with every word until the very last bit was basically a mumble. Then he rolled over on the sofa, and went on to moan with renewed vigour, “Don’t understand women, you know. Never have, never will.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips as he doled cocoa powder out into mugs. “Well, perhaps you both deserve better,” he murmured to himself.

Crowley looked up morosely.

“Did you say something?”

“I said if she wants to leave, let her,” said Aziraphale more loudly, bringing over Crowley’s usual mug (which had a little cartoon snake as a handle). “There you go, dear boy—that ought to make you feel better.” He waited until Crowley budged up enough, and then settled down beside him, quite happily. “By the way, did you get the message I left for you?”

“Message? No—haven’t been back home since the afternoon. Why, what was it?”

“It was about Wednesday night. Have you got anything going on?”

“Well, not _anymore_ , I haven’t.”

Crowley still sounded bitter, but Aziraphale decided to pretend he hadn’t noticed. He cleared his throat, and said in an offhand sort of way, “I just thought you should know that my contact in the West End came through. I’ve got two tickets for that show you’ve been wanting to see, Wednesday night. You know—the one that’s been sold out for months.” He drummed fingers on a knee. “If you’re still keen on it, that is.”

Very slowly, Crowley turned towards him. Aziraphale, who was secretly quite the fan of self-denial in small enough doses, drank first from his own mug, swallowed, and then waited several more long seconds before hesitantly returning the look. As he’d expected (or perhaps hoped), Crowley was gazing at him with a mix of awe and pleasant surprise, and a lovely warm feeling spread up from Aziraphale’s toes to what would’ve been the ends of his wings, if they’d happened to have been present in that plane of existence.

(Occasionally, he had the sense to feel uncomfortable about how much he loved to see that particular expression of Crowley’s—his reasoning being that something that made him feel so good was probably bad for him—but it hadn’t stopped him from continuing to do things so he would be able to see it.)

“You’re the best, angel,” said Crowley, breathlessly fond. “Did you know that?”

Aziraphale tried not to look too smug, but only partially succeeded. “Well... I do try,” he said, happily. “I’ll see you Wednesday, then?”

“It’s a date,” said Crowley, and grinned.

*

_Footnotes:_

[1] Slightly used, and probably with a faint patina of tarnish from social media use. [go back]

[2] Not even a big cup, mind you. Like one of those dinky little ones you put a single pump of ketchup in. [go back]

[3] Fortunately, Hell was the kind of place that taught you how to smile on the outside while screaming on the inside, so he had plenty of practice. [go back]

[4] In the general spirit of dining with tax collectors and prostitutes, that sort of thing. [go back]

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated. :D
> 
> I exist on [Tumblr](http://andreaphobia.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/andreaphobia), if you're interested in that sort of thing. I've also been looking for a Good Omens Discord server or fan community to join--I'd love for some recommendations!


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